


Again

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 02:42:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11004309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Galadriel alone sees the truth of an old friend.





	Again

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: For this week’s [silmread.](http://silmread.tumblr.com/post/160926234595/27-the-mirror-of-galadriel)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

She pauses mid-stroke, fist clenching tight around the handle of her brush. Her vision dulls against her own reflection in the mirror, her eyes blown wide but unseeing—she’s _feeling_ , and at first, her hearts wants to burst, but then her mind fills in that it _can’t be true._

Galadriel rises anyway. The handmaiden at her side startles, but Galadriel’s already turning, rushing away. She doesn’t even feel the cold as she emerges from her bedchambers, down the long hall and out into the open air. In only her silken nightdress, she takes the twisting stairs two at a time. She winds her way down the base of the tree, across one bridge and then another, flying past all those that stop to greet her. When her bear feet touch the grass, guards move after her, calling her name, but she’ll stop now for no one.

She rushes past the evening lights—lanterns, stars, and fireflies alike. The wind whips her hair back as she scales the hills and leaps over fallen branches, faster and faster with every step—the closer she gets, the more she _feels_ it. And she hasn’t felt this way in centuries. _Ages_. If she’d known to look for it, she might’ve felt it when his toes first crossed her borders. Instead, she knows he’s nearly there. 

Emerging through the trees, she spots him at last, like a white star set upon the earth. It isn’t until she’s nearly in his arms that she realizes he’s clad in grey, and he’s _different_ , in looks but not in feel. She sweeps into his arms anyway. He stumbles back with a startled little cry, then a fond chuckle. His hand pats her hair, far more wizened then she remembers. 

She breathes, “Olórin,” into his silver hair. She wants to squeeze him tight, but suddenly his bones seem brittle. Once, she wouldn’t have thought he had such things. Now she can feel the shape of them, and she detangles slowly, so she can clutch his ragged sleeves and peer into his eyes. They’re crinkled around the edges, more so than any Man’s she’s ever seen. His face is full of many lines and crags. But his eyes are the same. And she recognizes his smile.

He steps back only to bow. He bends so low that his pointed hat nearly topples off, and his beard brushes the ground. He never had that before, and when he straightens again, her fingers thread through it in wonderment. He murmurs, “It is good to see you, my lady. You are as beautiful as ever.”

“And you are... different,” is all she can say. She taps his shoulders when she’s done with his beard, no longer broad as they once were, but sloping and stooped. She didn’t think age could touch his kind. When she lays her palms flat against him, she’s sure she can still feel the strength within, though she can’t touch his mind, as she never could.

He mutters, “You were not supposed to recognize me,” though he smiles as though he’s glad she does. She’s glad of it. She doesn’t know what to do with all her questions.

He wouldn’t answer anyway. She knows that. She promises, “I will not tell any.” He smiles and tips his hat in gratitude. 

As she steps back to take him all in, now from foot to forehead, he tells her, “Gandalf,” and she nods, understanding and having a new name too.

“Galadriel.”

“Or ‘The Grey Pilgrim,’ could do, I suppose. Or Greybeard. Or Mithrandir. Or whatever you should like.”

“Mithrandir,” she tries, finding it more elegant, though it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that she’s gotten to see him again, though she was sure she never would. She reaches out for his long hands, takes their warmth in hers, and insists, “You must stay with me.”

“Must I?” he chuckles, with the light of their old world in his eyes. She nods and tugs him lightly forward, then turns to guide him by one hand. 

“Yes, and you must meet my husband. You must see my lands. Oh, I have much to tell you, my old friend!” She thinks for a moment that Celeborn must already know, but of course, any that saw Olórin come would have told her before allowing him in. She isn’t surprised he made it through unseen. 

His powers still live, it seems, even if his body’s faded, and he laughs as she pulls her, “Steady, steady now! I am not so spry anymore!”

“You had best hope you are,” she chides back, “for it is a long way up to the halls where we will sit.”

He groans, but he’s still smiling, and is long into the night, where she meets him with equal joy.


End file.
